


CQLT: The FOG series

by Montax



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Montax/pseuds/Montax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cobalt runs his brother's bookshop in downtown Vale. His life turns around after an attack on the city leaves him in a state of upheaval, and he is forced to reckon with the life he left behind...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Book Trade

“Welcome to Tuckson’s book trade! We have every book under the sun!"

 

The slogan splayed in auburn lettering on a back wall behind the counter and before stacks and stacks of books. Cobalt placed down a box next to the section marked "new arrivals,” turning to the slogan beneath the shadow of failing light from the shop window. _"Every book under the sun."_ _That was Tuckson’s dream, alright._ Tuckson always said he'd never sell a book he hadn’t read himself. Looking around now, Cobalt wished he had read them all. Those books seemed like a maze of his brother’s consciousness. When people asked: “Do you have...?” They were really asking: “Have you read…?” Cobalt laughed, then he gave a sigh.

The bell on the door chimed. “Hello?"

Cobalt turned around, wiping his face. “Yes?”

At the door was a girl, about his age, maybe older, with skin the color the of redwoods and glow-in-the-dark green hair. A customer.

"Welcome to Tuckson’s!” He said, walking towards her. He reached out his hand. "We have—"

“'—every book under the sun,’” she cut him off with a wave. “Yes, I am aware...I thought this place had closed down."

Cobalt closed his palm, swallowing slightly before answering. “Nope!” He smiled, extra wild. "Just under new management!"

“I see,” she said after a moment, sauntering over to a shelf. She ran a finger over the different spines before looking back at Cobalt with—Disdain? Mistrust? She crossed her arms. “And who are you? I knew the owner: you’re no Tuckson."

“I’m—" Cobalt felt shame wash over him.  _No Tuckson._  “I’m the new management. My name’s Cobalt. I—I knew him."

She stopped. “Oh,” she said after a moment. She nodded understandingly. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said in a low voice.

Cobalt nodded, shuffling his foot. “Thanks.”

“Do you know every book here?” She said, her own voice embodying a fresh vigor. “How many of these books have you read? Are you reading anything new now?"

Cobalt shook his head bashfully. “I’ve read only a couple of these—I wasn’t so into them before."

“Well, what are you reading now?” She asked again, her emerald eyes almost twinkling with an itching sincerity.

“Oh, well--it’s actually kind of boring,” Cobalt said. “I’ve been working through it so long I actually have…forgotten more than I’ve read."

“I see,” She uncrossed her arms and started scanning the store. She walked up to him and handed him a slip of paper, "I'm here to pick up an order."

“Oh yes!” Cobalt said, “Let me get it out of the back!” He went to the door marked “Employees Only.” In the back were more boxes, some opened and closed again, waiting to be unpacked or shipped out. An order form hung from the wall. On the far wall, a comm link projected from the wall, muted, showing footage from around Vale preparing for the Vytal Festival. 

Cobalt spotted the book on the break table, its spine already worn after weeks of glacial progress. If he wasn’t careful, he would have to rebind it to keep pages from falling out. That said, he slammed the book shut and returned to the counter. The woman was still in the store, closing her phone. “Here you are—"

“Gotta go,” she cut him off again, pocketing her phone. 

“Oh,” Cobalt nodded, hiding his disappointment. “You don’t want to buy anything?"

“No,” she called back over her shoulder. She thrust the door open and stepped out into the sunlight. “Good luck, I guess!"

The door shut behind her. Cobalt sat in the musty old shop, a copy of the Third Crusade in hand. “Okay then,” his voice cast about the bound pages, which swallowed them up.

 

That night, that same copy of the Third Crusade lay on his nightstand as Cobalt went through his nightly workout. Eighty handstand push-ups, 200 sit-ups, and a run through of the first eight forms.  _All eight?_  He thought to himself,  _When was the last time I did that?_

Across the room, his halberd leaned against the wall, sheathed and tied. Cobalt spied the end of its silver neck from the underside of his bed. He cocked his head, currently upside down in push-up number 65.  _Come to think of it, when was the last time I polished_  that?

Cobalt lowered himself with a grunt.

He pulled it out and sat on the bed, undoing the cloth sheath. The insignia of his family’s crest was still etched in the blade, as clear as the day he created it back at Signal academy. His brother, being much better at design than he, showed him a trick after seeing the initial design—he knew that Cobalt didn’t like the sound guns made. Cobalt pointed it in front of him, towards the open window, and rapid-clicked the small button at the base of the pole. The neck extended 2 feet, the blade catching the lamplight. Cobalt winced: not even the grip felt the same. 

_Forget it,_  Cobalt thought to himself, sheathing his halberd and all but tossing it to the side of the room. He turned back to his nightstand, intending to reach for the Third Crusade, when he saw the photo of his brother and him at the last Vytal festival, two years prior. He and his parents were all gathered around Tuckson holding a certificate and a blue ribbon. He had just won most exotic bookstore in all of Vale after his third year of being open. Tuckson credited his success to "friends in odd places.”

He remembered waking up to the broken storefront the next morning.  _Wonder were those friends were up to then_.  _Or the_  other  _time._

As if for the first time, Cobalt saw the profuse hair on the back of his hand.  He turned away, falling back onto his bed and wrapping his arms around him. He squeezed his eyes shut, digging his nails into his sides, and tried to retreat from the twitching around his waist.

 

The next morning came with him running his hands through his course hair and examining his teeth. He had a heavy gaze, his brown eyes peeking from behind two half open lids. He looked up and spied the ever growing mass of unruly black hair growing atop his hair. He would need another haircut soon. 

He looked below, where a familiar full beard had managed to grow, seemingly overnight. That would have to go  _today._

After a quick shower, shave, and breakfast, he headed downstairs towards the shop. Another Saturday--the busiest day of the week. He unlocked the front door and put on his customer-satisfaction face.

The shop saw a few customers, mostly regulars, including a few who had been looking for his brother. Around noon, he headed back to the the break room. He unpacked a tuna sandwich, apple, and water bottle, taking down the log for upcoming delivery: one shipment of current textbooks for a Mr. Qrow, no doubt meant to be sold at a reduced rate; an Atlas of the Snowy Forest, special order for a Ms. Xiao Long; a book on calligraphy styles for Ms. Goodwitch, and an order of research materials for Dr. Ublech.  _Dr.?_  Cobalt thought to himself.  _Seems pretentious._

_boom._

The remains of Cobalt's tuna sandwich splayed out around him as he came to, shaking the dizziness off. A wailing greeted him as he got to his feet. He went to the front door and found himself stumbling out into the street.  

The alarm had a harrowing sound to it, the dual tones bouncing off the city buildings. Shopkeeps, like himself, stepped out one by one, but no one asked any questions, only scanning the streets and waiting. The alarm assaulted their ears.

The screams started from the northeast. Cobalt saw people running, Beowolves and Boarbatusks chasing them.

"Oh no."   


	2. The weight of service

Cobalt turned to his neighbors at the cafe next door, “LOCK UP AND GET INSIDE!” He commanded. His body moved autonomously, and not at all as he had envisioned when he pondered over the situations of the apocalyptic movies and fiction he had read. With an open palm, he dimmed all the shop lights, but left the front door unbolted. Heading straight to the staircase, he marched, double-time, to his single room flat. His mind did not race. It did not panic. It was silent as his body moved, the processes playing out, fail-safes he had pondered seemingly the night before, until he was on all fours, his hand reaching out for his halberd under his bed, sheathed and shiny. The weight felt uneven in his hand. _What am I doing? ___

Cobalt stopped. He might have been willing to entertain that voice last night. But that was last night, when he had the luxury of going to bed. He had a different luxury this time. He threw the sheath off the halberd and headed downstairs.

Cobalt thrust the front door open. Before him, and what made his spine seize up, was a mass of people running before him like a crowd. Mothers and fathers and their children. Little ones in bosoms. A swell of how many lives, just scattering into the main channels of the city? Cobalt felt fear grip his throat, his stomach seeming to defy the constrains of space and expand into pit, rooting him to where he stood. _I can’t save all of them,_ he found himself thinking, his bother’s name hanging over the doorframe above his head. _Not even one,_ He thought, his neck popping as he felt a small, forced, swallow. He remembered his teacher’s critiques: “unfit for hunting."

Just on the other side of the half opened shop door, he heard a cry, almost immediately followed by another voice. “Get up, Dewey!"

Cobalt pushed the door open the rest of the way to see the back of someone racing the opposite direction of the crowd. The mass was all around them, but Cobalt watched as they lowered themselves, nearly covering someone Cobalt couldn’t see. Cobalt felt an energy travel up his right fist, from around the doorknob up his shoulder and into both his brain and stomach, down his legs and into the ground, his mouth forming the words that pushed back his thoughts.

“Inside! Get inside!” The words rang out like a shot, cutting through the pandemonium. The two of them, both boys no older than he, spun to face him, eyes wild and raw. “GET INSIDE!” Cobalt said again, this time to the crowd, his face wrestling itself free of its own terror and choosing dominant, invigorating rage in the absence of control. Like a nervous magic, like a snap of a firework in his left hand, his voice carried and boomed. “INSIDE!"

People raced through the open door: A mother and her little ones, an old man, and a small group of adolescents who couldn’t be much older than he was. “INNNNSIIIIIIIIDE!” He called out into the crowd, waving his halberd above his head like a flag. More people caught on, a small throng filling in between his brother’s shelves, seeking refuge in the fold of Tuckson's. All of Cobalt's hair stood up on their ends. So many people and just him. No sign of authorities in sight—

A crash came from just the block over. Atlas soldiers came into view, their guns firing unto a target just around the corner. Not more than 500 feet away from Cobalt’s still open door. The popping of the guns stopped Cobalt again, his eyes swiveling again to the pinprick of action in the distance. People continued to file inside. There were still way too many people in the street.

Cobalt turned to the filing people. A couple of others, including the two boys were helping to usher in others. The cafe neighbors were absorbing some of the crowd as well, but people were beginning to crowd the openings. There would be tramplings if Cobalt tried to rush the process.

“S-SINGLE FILE!” He stuttered, his voice suddenly without the authority he had just the moment before. People began to squeeze in, overwhelming the little doorway. They would get stuck if didn’t watch out. “EVERYONE, REMAIN CALM!” His falsetto butted in, turning his voice into a shriek.

One of the people he let in, a boxy looking man, began yanking people in, clearing the developing blockage. He turned to Cobalt, “You! Huntsman! We can help! Just buy us time!"

Cobalt nodded; _huntsman,_ the name sat on him like a crown, like a yoke. As he took in a sobering breath, his legs carried him through the parting crowd, the blade of his upright halberd bobbing high above the crowd, like the axe of an executioner. A huntsman was a civil servant, Cobalt knew. It was ultimately what had drawn him to the vocation as a little kid. They were superheroes. They were smart and strong.

Cobalt felt his sides quiver from underneath his shirt, the outside mounds of his feet straining to keep his balance under a sudden weight that surprised him. He was on the other side of the throngs of people, between them and the atlas guards. He was a last line, he knew. Like a live wire, that knowledge ceased to be the daunting ghost-fact, and became a spectre that sat just behind a lens of his eyes. He gripped his halberd ever tighter—he was afraid. _Tuckson, what should I do?_

An ursa came into view from around the corner, slamming into an officer and launching him over Cobalt’s head. Cobalt didn’t hear himself scream, didn’t realize he had nearly dropped his halberd at the sight of the ursa. Panic surged through him, made him deaf. He nearly turned around. Nearly ran. He looked back at the officer. The soldier was knocked out, his helmet cracked in half, blood seeping from his eye. From above his sight, he saw the people at his shop, frenzying and trampling and pointing behind him. Cobalt didn’t realize that he was covering his ears. It all happened in a second, his voice ending a sound “—son!"

He looked up at the entrance. Did the boxy man hear that? He couldn’t see him. He looked at the soldier, so far removed from everyone else. Was he still alive? He turned around to the street, where the Ursa wrecked havoc on the three remaining soldiers. What was going to happen to them? At once, and emptiness flooded every part of him, a folding, like a retracting bloom at the dusk of day.

Cobalt dropped his halberd and picked up the incapacitated soldier. The dead weight was heavy, with the extra gear the soldier was wearing. The gun was right beside him, but Cobalt left that as well, trudging the man at least twenty pounds heavier than he was on his back for the entrance. The Ursa roared behind him. Cobalt screamed again, not daring to looking back, digging deep to race with 180 additional pounds in his arms. He was not strong. He was not special.

When he reached the crowd, a voice cried out “WOUNDED!” Some people, an elderly woman and what could have been her granddaughter, begged others to make way. A couple lifted the soldier while others, big and small, asked others to make way. Cobalt got in quickly and kneeled, the boxy man lifting the soldier off of his back with a “Hut!” and passing him to what seemed to be a couple of other civilians. “Make room!” The boxy man said to the crowd. “The Huntsman needs to get out!"

Cobalt swallowed again. _Back out there?_ He thought to himself. He looked back up from his kneeling. A myriad of configured faces looked to him, and he was impressed with the weight of their lives—the ages, the stories, the beliefs, the hopes and the despair of the knowledge of it all being snuffed out one day, any day, one by one or even all at once. The threat of death stared back at him, and he in turn, felt the taut draw of the bow of death pull somewhere, the strain on his mind, almost like a singing outside of himself, off of every wall and book leaf, in every held breath in the room, and every space between the thoughts between them. Cobalt got to his feet. The soldier began to stir. The stories, the souls, made way before him, and the ones trying to get into the door were basked in light, trying to get into the comforting dark of his brother’s shop. He remembered his brother’s smell just them. His deodorant.

“Let me through,” he said, looking at the streams of light blessing those just outside to a safe dark, remembering his brother.

“LET HIM THROUGH,” the boxy man repeated, clearly and with the wisdom of a thousand ages.

The outside cleared once more. Cobalt ran through. _Strength,_ something in him said, _is not something you lose. Strength is sacrifice. You know how to sacrifice. You are already strong._

He took a breath. He knew he was to die one day. Why not today, in exchange for so many souls?

He began to move. To run. To race. He was in the thinned street. The majority of people had moved to safety. His job was already partway done. He grabbed his halberd, the soldiers overwhelmed. Before he could allow to regret, he chomped on his own mortality, tore it from the sinews, chewed, chewed, chewed with each step, and swallowed, charging the ursa. He didn’t care if he screamed.


	3. Jupiter

Cobalt raced past the soldiers, their bullets flying above him as he positioned his torso low to the ground, his knees reaching high along the lines of his torso and pounding along the pavement. The serrated blade of his halberd was cocked upward, the neck extending behind him and the blade clear of his moving legs as he closed the distance between him and the Ursa. The binding around his hips tightened with the increased mobility. Cobalt flexed his stomach, his core muscles revving with every step.

The Ursa swung first, its claws swatting at Cobalt from overhead. Cobalt shifted his weight, launching himself from his leading leg to the right of the grim, the claw missing the meat of his torso. He caught himself with his right foot, the energy climbing up the rooted heel and through his right torso as he swung his blade from the left, connecting with the Ursa's columnar arm. Cobalt followed through with the swing, butterfly kicking into a crouching stance, his feet connecting with the ivory bone plates before thrusting into its plated torso. Each move was an explosion of nerves as underutilized muscles leapt into action. The Ursa reeled back from the force of his hits, and Cobalt felt a familiar comfort flush his face--the hint of proficiency for what felt like a forgotten art.

The Ursa shook off Cobalt's hits, charging through as bullets continued to bounce off the grim's black, shadow-like fur. Cobalt hopped towards the Ursa again, thrusting with one hand gripped around the neck of his halberd. The Ursa knocked the head of the blade again, sacrificing little of its momentum as it swung again at Cobalt's exposed front.

Cobalt jumped back, cocking his elbow and thrusting twice more, connecting with the face plate and torso. Cobalt twirled the neck, the bladed head and the bottom of the neck trading orientations between Cobalt's alternating hands, slamming down against the head of the grim. Cobalt jumped into a poke stance, his shoulders lending to a full swing before giving way to another thrust.

The Ursa stumbled on its back legs, clearly off balance. The soldier's bullets began to connect with the shadowy fur. Cobalt pushed off his back leg into a forward stance, connecting the blade again. He retracted his front leg, rooting his balance and shoving the blade into cobblestone as he leapt, sailing along the pinpoint tip and kicking the Ursa to the street. Immediately it began to scramble to its feet. Cobalt leapt again, running his blade through the Ursa in-between its plates. The grim gave a cry, then collapsed into shadow.

The cry echoed in Cobalt's ears, hidden beneath his mass of hair. A chill ran down his spine, his jaw clenched shut and, for a moment, his muscles seemed to freeze. He hated those cries. Cobalt looked back over his shoulder towards the soldiers: they were moving again, their rifles raised as they went down to the next block. Cobalt looked back at the shop. The door was shut and the windows were dimmed. Good, he thought. He just needed to stay close to the bookshop. That would be how he could do his part.

A cry came from around the corner.

Cobalt turned back to hear the roar of grim intermingled with the screams of the people. The sounds traveled from the back of his head down and around his throat, straight through his pelvis and knees. Vertebrae in his neck popped from his jerking muscles, their snapping fireworks that dispersed through muscle tissue and nerves all over his face and chest. He took a deep breath, his body burning from the inside. The screaming continued. _Move,_ he thought to himself, the heat within him continue to climb. The sound of cartridges emptying and orders shouting were beginning to drown beneath the ringing in his own feverish ears. _Move,_ he said, his vision beginning to water and fade before hot tears. _Move._ His breath stopped coming. _Move._ He shut his eyes.

A big, meaty hand slapped him square on the back. Cobalt's eyes flew open, breath flying into his open mouth as he fell flat on his face. He looked up, giving a surprised sputter.

"Don't freeze now, Little Huntsman!" The Boxy Man was standing over him. Cobalt got a better look at him out in the open: his leathery, sun-worn skin almost entirely eclipsed by shadow, the whites of his eyes almost disembodied as sunlight cascaded atop of his curly hair. The Boxy Man reached down, pulling Cobalt from the ground. Whether or not it was the pulsing percussion of his voice or just his gruff hands, the haze that Cobalt didn't realize had come over his mind was batted away. Cobalt turned to the Boxy Man. "What are you doing out here? It's dangerous!"

The Boxy Man pulled from his back pocket two fingerless gloves. "I'm not so helpless, Little Huntsman." He strapped them on, and two small war hammers materialized in his hands. "Now, let's save our block."

Cobalt's eyes widened at his neighbor. His brother had worked along this man for nearly two years, and all this time, Cobalt had no idea that he was so protected. Cobalt again picked up his halberd, "Let's go." And they darted around the corner.  
Grim, civilians, soldiers, and Mechs dispersed and collided in disarray. Beowulfs chased civilians, Boarbatusks crashed into atlas soldiers, and Mechs engaged Ursai. Chaos, all of it.

The Boxy Man charged into the fray. He lowered his stance and extended his stride, pulling away from Cobalt. A beowulf that had caught his attention also caught a swing to the face plate, and in one hit, fell to the earth, clearly disposed. The Boxy Man's momentum carried him straight to the second grim, a spinning Boarbatusk's inertia completely reversed by twin hammer's greeting it mid roll. It too turned to dust.

Cobalt trued to keep up, but as the Boxy Man took off further and further from him, Cobalt's sense of his own capability diminished in an all too familiar way. The Boxy Man's own skill was, like Cobalt's classmates, augmented by the utilization of their semblance. Cobalt felt a pang grip him with hot hands.

Cobalt clicked a small button on the neck of his halberd, the blade splitting open. He clicked the trigger again, the neck retracting, his halberd morphing to an assault rifle he gripped with both hands. He sprinted down the street, two ursai taking note and coming out to greet him, and Cobalt fired a shot in both of their chests.

Cobalt killed his momentum as the two of them fell. He leapt over their corpses, catching up with The Boxy Man. The Boxy Man’s left hand now sported a shield entirely out of dust, deflecting the claw of a death stalker. The claw slid along the angle of the shield, the Boxy man sliding under and towards the mandibles. The Boxy Man’s shield reverted back to a hammer, and he swung down hard on the chitlin plates that made the exoskeleton, and audible _whomp_ reaching back towards Cobalt.

Cobalt fired rounds of dust at the Death Stalker thirty meters meters ahead of him. The impact grazed off of the chitlin plates, fizzling out into dust clouds. The Death Stalker let out a cry, thrusting its tail directly towards Cobalt. Cobalt dove to the side, skidding along the cobble stone as he continued to fire rounds. He could see the hammer head slam down again from between the claws, but was it doing any damage?

Cobalt flipped back unto his feet. A Beowulf leapt towards him, but a small button press and a wide swing bisected its parts. Something like bones clattered to the floor—these were not young and reckless grim. Cobalt took up one of the bones—the young ones never leave anything behind. It was rough and splintered, and not unlike a tooth. It was large, about eight inches, and it was only one of several. Cobalt tossed the bone aside. He’d come back to it later. He skipped into a run towards the engaged Death Stalker, the blade revolving high above him, leading the path.

The Boxy Man, meanwhile, back stepped out of reach of the Death Stalker’s mandible and claws. Cobalt saw a splintered chitlin as he raced past his companion, swinging his blade down between waving claws, the blade clanged to the ground, failing to hit its mark. The Boxy Man swung over Cobalt’s head, batting away a claw. Cobalt shifted his stance, flicking the end up and dashing forward another four feet. The death stalker let out another cry, confirming a strike. His companion rushed, his left hand running along the neck of the large hammer, snapping it in half, the dust reverting back into twin mallets. Cobalt batted away the claw swinging towards his right side, then swung upwards, deflecting the giant stinger. His companion swung downward, left mallet first, then right, while Cobalt’s blade swung again downward. One, two, three.

The Boxy Man thrust both mallets into its face plate, the Death Stalker careening and teetering on back legs. We did it? Cobalt thought, beholding the chitlin writhing upward.

Before he knew it, the Boxy Man was beside him, his hands gripping Cobalt's neck. “Watch this!” His thick accent shot buffeted against his ear drums.

“What are you doing?” Cobalt asked, trying to take the neck back. 

“Watch, Little One!” He shouted. A reassurance.

Cobalt saw as the blade flashed gold, a lit aura dusting space just past the edges. Cobalt’s companion began to spin the two of them around before leaping into a butterfly kick. “Here. We. _Go!_ "

He threw Cobalt into the air, launching him straight towards the underbelly. The Death Stalker began to fall back to earth, its soft underbelly descending from above. Cobalt flew towards it, his blade trailing behind him, until, when Cobalt could judge as just the right moment, he swung.

The blade cut through the chitlin like the blade of a shovel through packed earth: with shocking effort, but also the confirmation of reward. The blade swung through the flesh, and the two halves of the bisected Death Stalker fell on either side of him. Cobalt looked all around: there were no grim or soldiers in sight, but only a light dust falling around him, and a black vapor rising about him.

“RADIANT!” The Boxy Man’s voice called out to him from behind. Cobalt turned back to him. “You, my friend, are a great fighter!” The Boxy Man jogged up to him. “Let’s continue?"

Cobalt looked at the corner where they came from. “I can’t,” Cobalt said.

The Boxy Man cocked his head. “You can’t?"

Cobalt went to speak, to protest and say that he didn’t want to get too far from the shop, the last thing that his brother left him. He didn’t want to be away from the books and the smell and the dim light—the last safe place on earth. But that was selfish.

“OH!” The Boxy Man slapped his forehead. “The people in the shop! Go back, my friend—make sure they are safe!” He began to make his way further down the street. "And protect my shop as well!!"

“Your shop?” Cobalt asked.

“Jupiter’s Curios: The World's Treasures Brought to You!” He recited.

“You are Jupiter?” Cobalt asked, suddenly remembering the neighboring sign.

Jupiter gave a light bow, continuing on his way in a cantor. “Yes, and you are the smaller brother of Tuckson, who has gone on a journey! He spoke very highly of you! His huntsman brother!” And with that, he turned the corner, the last words again striking Cobalt. Cobalt about-faced and marched back towards the shop, pride swelling his face into a beaming smile. _Huntsman_. He thought in his mind, approaching the corner. _Huntsman_. _Hunts--_

His thoughts were devoured by the sound of a revving chainsaw.


	4. Still Dreaming

Anger pricked a nerve in Cobalt's back. It coursed up his spine, alongside the back of his cranium, traveling up and around to the zygomatic arch in his face, his nose flaring at the sight of a revving chainsaw at the front door of his brother’s shop and the red-claw insignia of the White Fang, billowing in the wind of day from the back of a vest, revealing two bulging arms. “HEY!"

The figure turned, a grim mask over his face.

“Whatever happened to not attacking faunus-owned shops?!”

The Faunus snarled. “Traitors to the Fang are worse than humans—but this is personal."

“Personal?” Cobalt looked around at the mayhem. “How could all this be personal?"

The faunus didn’t answer, but grabbed his blade with both hands. “I’m going to enjoy this, Little Blue,” he said slyly.

Cobalt froze. _That name._ “It’s been ten years,” He gasped. 

“Time for your whipping, Fog.” The Chainsaw broke into a run towards him, swinging down his blade. 

Cobalt leapt back, firing rounds at his adversary. He rolled straight back onto his feet, his blade swinging upwards, just missing his adversary’s broad side as he heard the roar of the chainsaw’s teeth inches away from him. His attacker swung a third time, his blade aiming for Cobalt’s knee caps. Cobalt pivoted his stance, his own blade swinging downward and stopping the hit. He looked back up at the plate mask—the chainsaw was a new addition, but the fighting style was unmistakable. It was him. 

Cobalt shifted his feet before taking his far hand and hooking it across for the neck. The crook of his arm swung him around, and he dug his heels into the street, bucking his hips, lifting the Lieutenant off the ground. 

But not over his shoulder. 

With a laugh, Cobalt felt the Lieutenant’s boot strike the back of his knee. Cobalt buckled, and before he hit the ground, he could see the sky and the building tops whizz by as his own leverage was used against him. He hit the ground prone, his head ringing. He pulled himself up to see the blade high above him, a glint of light caught in its teeth. 

A force launched Cobalt sideways, his back slamming into the curb just as the cobblestone chunked and splattered beneath the rapid chewing of the Lieutenant’s blade. He looked back: streams of purple light blasted against the Lieutenant, sending him careening backwards. Cobalt's gaze followed the purple streams to the end of a wand and a terse-looking woman with her hair pulled up into a bun. _Ms. Goodwitch?_

The Lieutenant recovered; upon seeing her, he hesitated. Glynda shifted her stance, rubble floating up from the street, poised and, Cobalt had a feeling, aimed at the White Fang officer. “Try it, Young Man,” she dared. 

The Lieutenant growled, then turned to Cobalt. “See you around, Fog,” he snarled, then he took off.

Cobalt got to his feet, the pain in his head subsiding. Still across the street was his weapon; he didn’t remember when he had been separated from it. Glinda marched straight over to him. “Mr. Borealis—what were you thinking?!"

“Professor!” Cobalt straightened his back. “I was, uh, well—after the alarm went off—"

“He did it!” a voice shouted from behind them. Glinda and Cobalt turned back to the the shop. People’s faces were pressed against Tuckson's display windows. The younger of the two boys pushed the door open, the faces looking out into the street.

“It looks like you did good work, actually,” she said. She moved on, turning the corner before Cobalt could continue. He thought he heard her say something: “…tential."

Cobalt jogged over to where his halberd lay. He thought again to Jupiter’s words, his soaring confidence in Cobalt’s own ability. _Huntsman,_ he said. In a moment, he was given an armor that strengthened his spine and added a weight to his steps. One name, and like a spell, he was strong. And with one dismissal, this time from an old professor, that armored strength turned to ash: _Wasted Potential._

He looked back at his dead brother’s shop. Dead; he didn’t not go on a journey. Jupiter either did not know, or he was lying: any way, there was no use trusting him. Cobalt turned to the grateful people in the shop. His mouth opened, the word loaded like bullets, ready to be fired: “Get out of my brother’s shop!"

But before he could utter a word, the alarm cut off. The next moment, an eruption burst forth from the citizens, and all he could hear was the hugging shoulders and the tearful faces and the arms outstretched and clasped hands and the great big _exhale_ of it all and he was silent. Bravely, he returned to the shop--the irony was not lost on him in that moment that his brother’s dream had saved so many after he was gone.

 

The next morning, everything hurt in the old way; curiously even to himself, this brought a smile to Cobalt’s face. He just lay there, his hips brushing up against themselves, intimate little _pops_ of waking muscles under his blanket. His fingers, meaty as they were, lightly sat atop his stomach, his wrist dragging them up and down over his navel and stomach and chest and

hair.

oh. yeah.

Cobalt ran his fingers together, retracting his hands from his body. His tail flit under the sheets, and a part of him nearly jumped out of bed. He turned on his side, his room spread out before him, light pouring in and resting on the bottom of the carpeted floor. Sleep had made room for him to let go, and letting go at night required putting back together in the morning. It required getting a grip all over again.

After Cobalt had returned to the shop, the next question was what to do with the wounded soldier. He was bleeding from his eye. Younger ones were trying to look past their parents, who were in turn trying to direct their attention elsewhere. Jupiter was nowhere to be found.

Cobalt, who at best could remember the basics of first aid, was somehow able to get through on his scroll to an ambulance. A volunteer (the older of the two brothers from the street) flagged down the ambulance while Cobalt compressed the soldier's eye with ice and gauze. The ambulance was there in under twenty minutes. The soldier at one point regained consciousness, and Cobalt got him to say a few words. He wasn’t concussed.

When the stretcher took him away, Cobalt turned to find that so many people had yet to leave. They didn’t have any bruises or scars; that look of hopelessness and terror that marked their faces not an hour before had so quickly been swept away, multiple expressions of relief and gratitude staring back at him. “Can I get anyone a cup of tea?” Cobalt said sheepishly. Several people burst into laughter, and even more cheered.

The resulting hours not only manifest tea, but coffee, pastries, book sales, conversation, screaming children, reunions, and before the end of the night, music. Tuckson’s Book Trade, while it said “open for business”, was effectively closed about three hours after opening that morning.

Cobalt wasn’t sure what time the last guest left—clearly overwhelmed, sweaty, and pleasantly drunk, he stumbled into his own bed shortly after midnight, conversation of his muted neighbors floating up from beneath the floorboards and his closed door. Sleep fell on him like a heavy blanket. And then came now.

With a blessedly mild hangover that stewed just below his navel, Cobalt only needed a half-hour to get out of bed. He stretched his neck and shoulders, his fingers reaching high above his head. His tail unfurled yellow, resting but not touching the ground. With the sunlight, the sizzling nerves, and the afterglow of the day before, Cobalt was certain that today was going to be a good day.

Forty minutes later, tail wrapped around his waist and face respectably shaved, Cobalt descended the stairs in a periwinkle button up and lilac jeans. The shop floor was in general disarray, cups and cans strewn about, bookshelves pushed aside to make room, and so forth. Cobalt collected the cans, scraped up the leftovers, moved the shelves back to their proper place, and just began sweeping when he heard a knock at the door. Broom in hand, he opened the front, “I’m sorry but—oh!"

“Hello, Mr. Borealis,” Professor Ozpin said, his mug in hand. “Just who I wanted to see."

Ozpin and Cobalt sat from each other on the rooftop patio of the cafe down the block; the manager who immediately recognized Cobalt greeted him with a hug and a free coffee and pastry. Cobalt went to insist that he pay, but the manager was having none of it.

“It seems like you are doing well for yourself," Ozpin commented once they sat at their table. Cobalt eyed his black coffee, The surface looked so much like a mirror, staring up at him with a reflection not of silver but of darkness, everything rendered in shadow and silhouette.

“It’s a new development,” Cobalt said, dispelling any interpretation of praise. He took a sip, staring down the mug to see the clouds above him bright and unadulterated by white milk.

“I see,” Ozpin said. A pause following his words.

Cobalt set down the cup, looking at his old teacher. He was still dressing in black; still dragging around that cane, still drinking too much coffee, even after kidney stones six years ago. _Six years,_ he thought to himself, shifting in his seat, _really?_

“How have you been?” Ozpin asked, swigging from his mug.

Cobalt shrugged, interlacing his fingers and crossing his legs. “Up and down. The usual. How have classes been?"

“I’m Headmaster now, actually,” Ozpin said, a small hint of a smile crooking his lips. “Although I do think about returning to the classroom from time to time."

“Sounds like you have been doing good work,” Cobalt smiled cordially. He grabbed the handle of his cup, raising his glass. “Congratulations, Headmaster.”

Another silence ensued, broken by the one-sided gulp of coffee.

“Do you still practice your huntsmanship?” Ozpin asked suddenly.

Cobalt, whose own thoughts, he had realized, had started to drift, did a double take. “What?"

“I don’t mean missions,” Ozpin said. “I mean are you still practicing? I practice everyday."

“You do?"

“Hard to run a school without hitting something,” Ozpin joked. They both laughed, the Cobalt let out a sigh.

“No,” he said.

“Not even a good bit of sparring?"

Cobalt shook his head. “Most of my days are spent looking after the shop."

“Tuckson’s?” Ozpin leaned into his chair. “When did you start working there?”

“A—about two years ago."

“And before?” He took another swig.

Cobalt bit his lip, as if chewing on the words. After evident deliberation, he set down his cup. “Um… let’s not talk about that."

Ozpin nodded after a second. He pulled out his scroll. “I ask about your progress,” he said, “because of this."

He passed the scroll over to Cobalt. Cobalt watched on as a translucent representation of himself wielded his halberd, fighting off Ursai and a Death Stalker. His movements were sloppy, the flow chunky, and his technique full of holes and exploitable openings.

“You have such a talent,” Ozpin said, retrieving the scroll. “For six years of not taking a mission or even utilizing your forms, you leapt right into action and took on grim and the White Fang with minimal hesitation. Not only that, but you saved lives. Such a sense of duty."

Cobalt sat uncomfortably in his chair. “Thank you,” he said, giving the slightest nod. Mentally, he discarded the compliment.

“…Which reminded me of an email I had received, once upon a time. One that had left me confused, and very hurt."

Ozpin flicked his finger on the scroll a few more times and typed search. When he handed it back to cobalt, an odd conjoining of nostalgia and grief coming together into a stale bitterness.

"Dear Professor Ozpin:  
Maybe this hits you with a measure of shock. But maybe it doesn’t.  
In any case, I’m leaving Beacon.  
I suppose I should give some reason as to my departure, but I’m sure you have some idea. Simply put, I do not belong here. You and everyone else here have made that abundantly clear to me.  
When I came to Beacon, I wanted to become a huntsman: I wanted to use my talents, fight alongside my friends, and see the world. I wanted to be a huntsman because I was told they were good people. My time at Beacon has shown me otherwise.  
Dishonesty is rewarded. Bullying, too. I have come to you, as well as other faculty, about the way students have treated me, all because of a couple of ears and a tail, and not only was I given half-hearted attempts at addressing the issue, but it seems it was all out of your own sort of bemusement. I realize now that you are not on my side—you want to relive your own glory days through my tormentors. I am convinced you DESIRE the days when Faunus like me were chased down and murdered in the street; desegregation must have been your worst nightmare.  
As a Huntsman, I was imparted means and methodologies to fight and destroy grim who threaten to destroy civilization—and yet, even now I am called a BEAST in the hallway, an ANIMAL in the courtyard, and a FOG in the dorms—I’m not safe in my own bed! I have had ENOUGH.  
Enough of this school.  
Enough with being a Huntsman.  
Enough with You.  
I’m out of here. I don’t care that Graduation is six months away. I don’t want to work with any one of these people ever again.  
What good are Huntsman when they are just as bad as any grim?"

Cobalt looked up from the email, Ozpin studying his expression. He remembered now—how Ozpin was always doing that.: How he would try to placate him. 

His anger was still there, like the surface of a welled-up body at the bottom of a pit. He tried to bury it again, looking away from Ozpin and instead off into the distance. He sighed. “Why are you showing me this?” He asked, handing the scroll back to Ozpin. He took it.

“In part,”Ozpin said, placing his cane down, “to make amends. I came out here because I wanted to see how one of the most unique students I had met in my tenure at Beacon was faring in the world. The decision to abdicate one’s dream after disillusionment comes often to those who often love dreaming over reality—but yours, I think, is not that case. And so, I wanted to see if you were still dreaming."

Cobalt’s hands were clasped, the fingers interlocked as he listened to his old mentor. He still had that acrid smell of coffee on his breath, and the habit of squinting over his glasses. He adored that once, but that breath now was rank, and the squint, disingenuous.

“Are you still dreaming?” Ozpin asked, his eyes searching for his former student. Cobalt, to him, had aged too: his eyes had become like stripped almonds, even and cutting and judicious in all the wrong ways. If there was a glimmer of light, of a future worth chasing, it was enshrouded, cloaked, either in modesty or in defense. The twenty-four year old had become a distant man, a far cry from the wide-eyed, luminous student who raced to his office every lunch period.

“Yes,” Cobalt answered, much to Ozpin’s surprise. The word came out with all the flavor of a “so what?”: a defiant dare cast the headmaster’s way.

“Do you still dream of being a Huntsman?” He asked.

Cobalt paused. The answer itself came immediately: Of course, and that surprised him. He couldn’t remember the first thing about training. What was once second nature to him—the theory, the nuance, the flair—was all now locked away by time and lack of practice. He could barely remember how to wield his weapon: a halberd whose name he had forgotten. He was too old, too weary, too out of shape to be any good now, and plus he had his brother’s shop to worry about—what about Tuckson’s dream?

“Yes,” he said. He blinked as he said the word. An involuntary response.

“You know, you still could,” Ozpin said.

“I’m a little too old for Beacon, Professor Ozpin,” Cobalt forced himself a small smile. “It’s too late to start over."

“According to our culture, that might be true,” Ozpin said. “But even with all my authority as Headmaster, even if I can’t grant you admission into Beacon, I cannot stop you from being a Huntsman. Institutions, schools, like mine, may produce Huntsmen and Huntresses, but the most important factor of whether or not one succeeds will always depend the individual, not the institution. You are more Huntsman than any collective association can ever hope to be, and nothing so small as age will stop an able and willing body. It starts with the desire to be a huntsman, Mr. Borealis, and you just told me that six years outside of school have not killed that desire.

“And besides,” Ozpin continued. “You’re never too old for a tutor."

Cobalt and Ozpin parted ways outside of the cafe, each saying little more than a passing goodbye. Cobalt looked at the small business card in his hand, a name and number scrawled along the back. “Taiyang Xiao Long.” The name sounded vaguely familiar; he chalked it up to a different life, and shoved the card into his pocket. Back to reality, he thought dismally. But who was to say that what Ozpin was offering couldn’t also be real?

He fished out his keys and placed them in the lock, when a shadow walked up behind him. “Excuse me." 

Cobalt spun around. The figure’s beret peaked against the sunlight, the sun’s rays catching on Cobalt’s face. The figure stood at attention, his posture erect.

“I’m looking for Cobalt Borealis?"

Cobalt grip around his keys shoved the teet between his knuckles, ejecting them from the still bolted lock. He squinted at the shadowed face, not wanting to raise an arm and possibly give whoever it was an edge over him. “Yes?” He answered in a low, even voice. The figure clicked his heels together, his hand reaching up to his head. Cobalt’s chest rose ever so slightly, his knees coiling like a spring.

The man took off his hat and tucked it beneath his arm, the sunlight morphing from ominous to revealing as it revealed a young face with an eye patch. “Private Djoeder Ironwood. I came to thank you for saving my life."

Djoeder and Cobalt took each other’s hand. “It’s nice to see you again,” Cobalt said. Djoeder was tall, around 6 feet, to Cobalt’s 5’7”. He was dressed in a private’s fatigues, his beret placed under his arm. The patch on his eye was black and with a sharp contrast to his fawn-colored skin. His remaining eye was a sharp green and deep set, his taupe-colored hair cut into a flat-top fade. He was undoubtedly human, and Cobalt noted the stone-like grip wrapped around his own, comparably softer hands.

“It is certainly nice to have the opportunity to see you,” he smiled. “Even if…well,” he sort of gestured at his face.

“Oh,” Cobalt said softly. “They weren’t able to save it?"

“Oh! No it’s fine!” Djoeder reassured with a laugh, and Cobalt noticed a percussion to his bass-like voice. “Six months medical leave, to heal."

“Six months?”

“Severe eye trauma,” Djoeder nodded. 

“Oh…” Cobalt said. “Well, I’m glad I could be of help."

“Actually,” Djoeder said as Cobalt turned back to the front door. “I was wondering: could I borrow a bit of your time?"

“I’m sorry, but I gotta run the shop."

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about: are you hiring?"


	5. Revisiting

Cobalt opened the door to his shop to let Djoder in. The floor was still in disarray, the bookshelves shoved against one another, the floor in needs of a good sweeping. He had the sneaking suspicion that he actually wasn’t going to open today. “You are looking for another job?” Cobalt asked.

Djoder walked in. He seemed to survey the place. Probably trying to size it up to his personal standards. It didn’t take a genius to figure that it didn’t. He turned to Cobalt and answered. “Well, I grew up in Atlas. I joined the military less than a year ago, and am looking for something temporary to hold me over these next few months while my eye heals."

“Why not work on base?” Cobalt grabbed the broom, still laying near the doorway, and continued sweeping. “Sorry,” he said. “Still cleaning up from yesterday.”

“Let me help,” Djoeder said.

“No, that’s alright,” Cobalt reassured. _There’s only one broom,_ he thought to himself. His brother’s shop was built for one, it seems—one small table in the backroom, a one room flat settled on top of it, one name over the door. Tuckson built a life with little room, Cobalt realized. He tried to remember if his brother had any friends.

“Well… let’s just say that I’m taking the opportunity to utilize a bit of PTO,” Djoeder continued. "Is the owner, Tuckson, here? I’d like to discuss working underneath him."

“What?” Cobalt stopped sweeping.

Djoeder pointed at the slogan on the far wall. “Tuckson. Is he away on a trip? Do you suppose I would be able to meet him?"

Cobalt stood up straight. “No. I’m sorry, but Tuckson isn’t here."

“Oh…” Djoeder said. "Well, do you have any idea when he will return?"

Cobalt chewed on his lip, the truth rising inside him with his chest. “He’s… dead,” he said stiffly. The rising he had felt sat like a lump in his throat. Even that fact that his brother was dead felt like only a part of the truth.

Djoeder looked visibly taken aback. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, his voice tender and low.

Cobalt just went back to sweeping, giving little more than a nod.

“Did the two of you… run this shop together?"

“He left it to me when he died.” Cobalt found out he had died from a letter from the city as well. No visit. No lifeline.

“I see… how long have you been running it?"

“A couple of months, myself.” Cobalt confessed. Suddenly, the thought that Djoder might have asked with the intention of trying to usurp the shop from him. _It’s not crazy,_ he thought to himself, scooping what was now a little more than dust and lint and hair into a pan and dumping it into the trash bin. _And he’s from Atlas—who knows how much money he could be sitting on?_

Cobalt unbent himself, and he suddenly felt much older. He twist from side to side; his lower back popping like packaging bubbles. He didn’t look directly at Djoder. There were certain times that he remembered how difficult it was to do something so basic—one such time was his final year at Beacon. Back then, just like now, he was brought to focus on the loaded nature of eyes. The eyes of the privileged and obliviousness of humans had become insufferable in the face of what he had known about them and their legacy with faunasfolk; their ambivalence, their cavalier, they way they got away with _everything,_ it was all there, sordid and squalid—and yet, he couldn’t look at it directly with the audacity to wield the authority to accuse.

"I see…” Djoder nodded. “What were you doing before?"

“Staying with my parents,” Cobalt said with a sigh. It was partly true.

“Have you ever run a shop before?” Djoder asked. “I could help. I’d be willing to work in exchange for room and board."

Cobalt turned to him. “You don’t want to return to Atlas?”

Djoder shook his head after a moment. “There is nothing for me there, so I figure—why not try something new?"

Cobalt tried to focus on Djoder's whole face, the edged lines as opposed to his eyes, something that was made visibly easier by his eye patch. “How old did you say you were?"

“Twenty-two."

 _He’s just a baby,_ Cobalt thought to himself. Even still, Cobalt couldn’t really say that he as much different at his age. “Trading in a life of a soldier for someone who is a little more than a librarian? You may find yourself bored very quickly…do you even know how to run a shop?"

Djoder responded pleasantly. “I could learn. And the quiet might do me a little good."

“Well,” Cobalt said looking around his shop. “Do you have things you need to move off base?"

Djoder cleared his throat. “Everything I had was tied to my job—I sort of, am wearing…everything…I own."

For a moment, neither of them said a word. Cobalt for a second contemplated what exactly he was agreeing to—a soldier, with nothing but the clothes on his back, was asking to stay with him indefinitely in exchange for his labor—a foreigner, with other possible allegiances.

Cobalt leaned on the broomstick. “Do you have money for clothes?"

Djoder nodded, “yes, Sir."

“Go buy yourself some essentials,” Cobalt said. “We’ll discuss the details when you return."

“Is that…a yes?” Djoder asked.

“Yes,” Cobalt said. He resumed sweeping. “See you soon."

 

It was end of day when Djoder returned. Cobalt had swept and replaced the furniture, mimicking the original floor plan. The back room looked essentially the same, except the small television, the coffee table, and the folding chair had all been pushed to the side for the new addition of a camping cot. The addition itself was minimal, the only real living quarters was upstairs, the one bedroom apartment that he lived in. Djoder wasn’t going to sleep up there.

Djoder took one look at the cot after Cobalt, and gave a sigh of relief. “It’s perfect,” he said. “Thank you so much for saying yes."

“I had already said yes,” Cobalt pointed out.

“Well then, thank you for not taking it back. Many times, a yes isn’t a yes until you see the job done.” Djoder set down his bags. "That’s a yes that remains a yes, my Uncle used to say, that was the difference between the making of a Huntsman, a Soldier, and everyone else—how true is your ‘yes.’ People take back their yeses all the time."

“But not this time,” Cobalt said. Then he thought again, “not today at least."

“No,” Djoder inhaled deeply. “Today it seems that you said yes. Shall we celebrate?"

Cobalt’s stomach gave an uneasy lurch. “No drinking for me tonight."

Djoder nodded. “Okay then. How about you tell me what this job is going to be like?"

Cobalt nodded, then looked around. “Do you like to read?"

Djoder smirked, “lately I’ve been reading specs and briefs, but—I do. Now that I have so many options, I don’t know where to begin. I’m sure you have read every book here."

“I haven’t. Not even close.” Cobalt said. He pulled a clipboard from off the wall, his hand square on his hip. he was power-posing, and when it came to the shop, he found himself looking at Djoder square in the eye. “Here’s the manifest of our inventory. Nonfiction and fiction. History, science, fantasy, religion…anything we can get our hands on. If you hear of any books that we don’t have, half of your job will be trying to hunt it down."

“Gotcha,” Djoder said, spreading his legs into a pose of his own, his arms behind his back.

“Your responsibilities will be, essentially, opening and closing up shop, maintaining inventory, interacting with customers, and ensuring that everything is tidy,” Cobalt listed off with each finger. "We will reconvene at the end of the day for feedback, and pay is every two weeks."

“Understood. Anything else?"

“Not right now. We’ll cover more details tomorrow.” Cobalt extended his hand. “Welcome to Tuckson’s Book Trade—we have every book under the sun."

 

It was another two weeks before Cobalt walked up to the airship station to Beacon; he had to ensure that Djoder was fit to run the shop. Djoder was prim, kind, and beyond that, docile—but the population of customers needed time to get used to a new face. Cobalt had to make sure people could look past an eye patch on a younger face. People, especially customers, Cobalt had learned, could look past so little.

But they had, and looking at Djoder, it was easy to see why—he actually caused a bump in sales, and a considerable amount of traffic diverted to the shop, high schoolers and middle schoolers and a few young adults stopped by to make veiled small talk about what some of his favorite books were, and what his hobbies were, but they left the shop empty handed, without a book or Djoder’s number. Djoder seemed to take it all in stride, and while he was pleasant to all the customers that came his way, he didn’t seem to express interest in any of their advances—an astute business decision. _A pretty face goes a long way,_ Cobalt thought to himself enviously—faunasfolk were never ascribed as “beautiful" in a world of human advertising. Cobalt stepped on the platform, his halberd sheathed away. He was dressed in a pair of jogging pants, track shoes, and a white tee-shirt. the platform lead to the docking area, and he boarded. About twenty minutes later, he was at Beacon, the land of Yesteryear.

He stepped onto the pavement of his old combat school—everything was so different now. Beacon was still a light in the dark, but the past had made that dark even darker, the light no longer a comforting glow, but a threatening flicker. He tried to look inconspicuous as he made his way down the plaza and headed for the highest room in the tallest tower.

Cobalt stepped inside the lobby just as a man exited the elevator. He was tall and well-built, sporting a military grade haircut and an all white suit. A woman similarly dressed and accompanied by two human-sized droids, joined him after a brief salute. “Sir,” she said.

“We will talk about your display back on the ship,” General Ironwood said. “But just so we’re clear—not everyone is pleased that I have brought you board. The least you could do is be an example of dependability, instead of the brash display I witnessed today."

Winter Schnee dolefully nodded. “Of course."

“Let’s go,” General Ironwood said. “Excuse us,” said in passing to the much softer looking Cobalt. Cobalt watched them pass, the arrogance of their youth intact after so many years out of whatever academy they attended. The resolve on their faces was just as evident on all the students around him. Military and exchange students from Haven, Shade, and Atlas were all around, and the excitement he would have otherwise felt instead made him leery as he listened for any sort of bits of conversation about him, faunas, the word “creep” or “animal” or “fog” or “beast.” He was as much as ten years older than some of the students here, and while one could argue that “progress was being made,” he couldn’t find any reason to believe in progress, especially from those who didn’t need it. _Besides,_ he thought to himself, _who could believe that history could be so linear as to be solved by “Progress?”_ He looked around, surveying the passing students. Picking out a faunas was little easier that picking out a needle from a haystack—a pair of bunny ears atop on head, a stray tail elsewhere. Most seemed to be from Vacuo—fewest from Beacon. Nothing had changed at all.

Cobalt turned back and pressed the button. The elevator door opened, and he stepped inside. Ozpin’s words from their time at the cafe seemed so far away now—he couldn’t really remember what he had said that brought Cobalt to Beacon again, but now that he was here, he had been reminded of one glaring flaw, a whole section that had been over looked, under utilized, and arguably, intentionally forgotten about by his last headmaster.

When the elevator doors opened a few moments later, Cobalt stepped into a large chamber room. Above him, gears, ten foot in diameter, slowly twirled like a giant mobile, time clanking away in an ambient thundering that set just beneath the nape of Cobalt’s neck. Professor Ozpin sat the opposite end of the round, clock-shaped room, his chair facing out over Beacon Plaza. He swiveled his chair back around. “Mr. Borealis,” he said, standing. “I’m glad you could make it."

“Thank you Professor,” Cobalt answered. “But I was hoping we could address something before moving any further."

“Oh?” Ozpin leaned on his desk. “What’s that?"

Cobalt took a deep breath. “One of the biggest proofs in my mind that I was under valued as a Faunas here was the simple fact that I couldn’t find a single faunas teacher at Beacon.” He went on, “it wasn’t just that, but outside of the great war and the civil rights movement of twenty years ago, it doesn’t seem like faunasfolk exist in your world."

“ _My_ world?” Ozpin asked darkly.

“Or rather, the world of which you are a part of,” Cobalt corrected himself. “The world of a Huntsman’s education at Beacon Academy.”

“Ok,” Ozpin sat back down. “Continue…"

“Actually… I was wondering if you were working on that at all—like possibly entertaining the idea of hiring a faunas professor, or even a class on faunas culture and literature."

“One day,” Professor Ozpin said. “But I cannot do that with a snap of my fingers. Nor would I—I need someone to be not just a fabulous huntsman and teacher, but in all sense of the word, a hero, in Spirit, Mind, and Body.

“Which is, in part, why I am glad you decided to meet with me. As of right now, I am instating you as a huntsman, certified to take on missions as any other huntsman in Remnant."

“What?” Cobalt asked, shocked. “But I am—I am not ready!"

“Which is why your first mission is mandated as a sixth-month assignment. With Mr. Xiao Long."

Just then, the elevator opened behind Cobalt, and another huntsman with blond, scraggly face, though clearly very burly, stepped into the room.

“Speaking of which,” Ozpin said. “Taiyang, meet your next assignment—Cobalt Borealis."

“Wait,” Cobalt began to protest, “I didn’t exactly agree to anything yet."

Mr. Xiao Long crossed his arms. “is this true? Then I assume that there is another reason you flew all the way here, other than to meet me?"

Cobalt turned back to Ozpin. “I also came to find out what’s happened to my team."

“Team CBLT?”

“Team CQLT."

“Oh yes, I remember.” Ozpin said. “I can look, but they are hunstmen and huntresses now—they may be on missions, beyond my reach. In any case, it will take some doing to track them all down."

“And what about your mission, Huntsman?” Xiao Long siad. He had not moved from the front of the elevator, his arms crossed and his hand cocked to the side. “Are you going to bail on your first mission?"

Cobalt turned to Ozpin. Ozpin had placed his cane to the side of the desk, his fingers interlaced. “This is all happening so fast,” Cobalt said.

“Life happens fast,” Ospin nodded. “But I must ask you this—are you still dreaming?”

Cobalt straightened his spine. “What?"

“When we met at the cafe, I asked you if you dreamt of being a Huntsman. Dreams are like stars on a moonless night—a comforting light in the dark. Drams can also be a well that we draw strength from deep down. But that same well can drown us. that light can blind us. Dreams are good, but we must not waste our lives away dreaming. Even if it kills us, we must do, even if that doing is the smallest relevant act we can imagine.

“You dream is to be a Huntsman, but dreaming has left you cold, bitter, and decrepit before twenty-five. I’d say, it’s time for this dreamer to wake up."

 

Cobalt opened the front door of his shop with the key. Djoder came out of the back room, his dinner in a small plate in his hand. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Cobalt said, bolting the door shut behind him and pocketing the key. “Did things go okay here?"

“Yeah, “Djoder said. “It has been slower today since everyone has been watching the arena matches. Have you been following them?"

“No, I haven’t,” Cobalt said.

“Beacon did really well,” Djoder said. "Ozpin really seems to know what he is doing."

“Mmm,” Cobalt answered half-heartedly.

“How was your day?”

Cobalt looked up towards Djoder. He stood between rows and rows of books, his bowl not far from his face. The place seemed a lot more organized—with Djoder around, they had already made a dent in the list of projects that Cobalt had discovered in Tuckson’s belongings. The shelves had been reorganized, the back log of calls that needed to be made regarding received orders were nearly completely sorted out, and the shop was immaculate. Djoder had even gone so far as to reach out and procure a number of paintings to line the wall from local artists to display on the wall, turning the shop into an art gallery as well as a bookstore.

“It was… well,” Cobalt placed down his halberd. "I actually need to talk to you about it."

Djoder nodded, putting down his plate. With a remote, he turned off the television in the back room. “What is it?"

“Ozpin,” Cobalt answered. “He offered me a mission."

Djoder looked back at the television, then back at Cobalt. “The headmaster?"

“Yeah, _that_ guy.” Cobalt leaned on on of the bookshelves. “He says I can be a huntsman again."

“I didn’t know you were a huntsman, once."

“Once.” Cobalt thought again, then sighed. "Well, almost."

“Okay.” Djoder leaned against the counter. “So what are you going to do? Are you going to take it?"

Cobalt had been trying to figure out the implications of that question all day. After he left Ozpin’s office, he took a long walk around the school grounds of Beacon. A number of students gave him weird stares, but he didn’t pay them much attention as he looked at some of the old hang out spots he and his team had hung around. What would they think of hearing that he’s started taking missions? Would they try to find him? What would they say?

Eventually, he made his way back to Vale. He spent hours on main strip, trying to window shop, trying to take it in, take in something, that would give him an answer. But all he could really do was look a few feet before his footsteps, groups of humans passing him by. He gave them a polite smile to the other faunas he saw. Not all of them smiled back, but a few did. He had disappeared into the crowd again in less than a month after the breach, that pride he had allowed himself to feel in the hours later wasted away like a bouquet a month after being plucked and dropped into a vase. If he said yes, would it be because he wanted another chance at that feeling? Would it be because he wanted another day of camaraderie?

“Would you be able to handle the shop if I did?” Cobalt asked.

“I could manage. I might need assistance. How long are we talking about you being gone?"

“Six months, at least.” Cobalt answered.

“Oh,” Djoder said. Cobalt nodded—Djoder was going to be off of medical leave by the time he got back. This would probably be the last time that they saw each other. “Then we would definitely need assistance. Someone dependable, who could run the shop after I return to base.”

“Yeah,” Cobalt said. “If I were to take the mission, I would need to report in by the end of the week."

“Okay… I’ll get started working on the ad for the morning."

“This is a lot of responsibility,” Cobalt said. “I can do it."

“It’s no trouble,” Djoder insisted. “You look like you have enough on you mind."

Cobalt exhaled—in a way. Djoder had just given him permission. “Thanks," he said, heading up to his room with his halberd.

“Have a good night,” Djoder said back. He took his plate and the remote back into the spare room, where his scroll laid on the card table next to a copy of “Discipline and Punish.” He picked up the scroll and dialed, his free hand clicking on the television. “Hey. It’s me,” he said, pulling off his eye patch to reveal a perfectly matching cybernetic eye. On the television, a man dressed in a white military jacket and an immaculate haircut surrounded by the latest Atlas hardware—the Elysian Knights, “I’m going to need a favor—how soon can you send someone to Vale?"


End file.
